


Blackberry Harvest

by violue



Series: Carnival Oasis [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Brief mention of past torture, Creature Castiel, Frottage, Gore, M/M, Oral Sex, Tulips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6582175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is no love without forgiveness, and there is no forgiveness without love."</p><p>—Bryant H. McGill</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackberry Harvest

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely and enthusiastic [Kris](http://kelisab.tumblr.com).
> 
> It's probably prudent to mention that if you haven't read the other installments of this series, you should go read them first.

“You’re not paying attention.”

Dean looks from the ceiling, to Castiel, then back to the ceiling. “I just don’t get how I slept through this.”

When he went to sleep last night, Dean’s room looked like it always did. Nearly bare walls, boxes shoved off to the side, a couple of old rugs on the floor.

Now? The room is different. There are lanterns affixed to the ceiling that are glowing despite not having a power source. Mary’s drawing of a smiling cat is now in a standing picture frame on top of Dean’s dresser, next to the little stuffed bear Castiel made during Dean’s first visit to his tent. Dean’s ratty old plaid blanket has been replaced with a deep green bedspread. There are a million little carvings and statues and tchotchkes on every available surface, including the stack of boxes which has been covered with large pieces of green fabric. There are tapestries hanging over every piece of exposed wall, thick woven pieces depicting what Dean recognizes as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The tapestries have different angles, different focuses, but they’re done in the same style, probably all done by the same artist. Dean wonders if that artist is Castiel.

As much as Dean would _like_ to focus on the way Castiel is kissing down his curiously naked body, he’s really pretty mesmerized by the tapestries, and he doesn’t understand where all this came from, but he hasn’t looked through Castiel’s stuff since they moved in.

That picture frame Mary’s drawing is in looks like it’s made out of actual fucking silver.

“I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, so I kept you asleep with my grace,” Castiel says.

What? “Dude, don’t do that. Don’t _drug_ me.”

Castiel frowns, moving his lips away from Dean’s body. “I didn’t drug you, Dean, I would never. I only used my grace to soothe the disturbances to your sleep that my noise and movement were causing.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t do that either.” Castiel’s eyes look so _sad,_ and Dean aches. But Castiel needs to be aware of Dean’s boundaries. “Cas, I’m a hunter. I need to be alert. I need to be able to wake up when my body is telling me to wake up.”

“You weren’t in any danger, Dean. I would never let harm come to you while you slept.”

Dean shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, Cas. I’m not mad, okay? But no more grace-ing my body to sleep.”

Castiel nods solemnly. “I promise.” He chews on his bottom lip, looking troubled. “What about the nightmares?”

“Wh-what?” Castiel knows about the nightmares? Dean doesn’t talk about those, the dreams where he’s nine years old again and coming home to find his mother with her throat slashed in the basement, the Colt inches from her lifeless hand, her body mere feet from a furious Azazel still pacing inside the devil’s trap he’d carelessly walked into. Dean’s first kill, at nine years old. He knew enough about guns, enough about _that_ gun to know what to do with it. The great Azazel being taken down by a _child_ is the stuff of legends in the hunter community, but for Dean it’s the stuff of nightmares.

Nightmares that he hasn’t had since he and Castiel met. Huh.

“Have… do you make my nightmares go away, Cas?”

Castiel looks conflicted as he nods. “Of course, Dean. It is hard to watch you suffer, harder still to do nothing about it.”

“I didn’t… I had no idea.”

“I didn’t realize you would object to it. I’m sorry, Dean. I won’t do it again.”

“No, no, you can… that’s different. It’s okay if you want to keep the nightmares away, Cas. Just… the other thing. Don’t do the other thing.”

“Keeping you asleep with my grace.”

“Yeah.”

“What if you asked me to do it?”

Dean rolls his eyes, smiling. “Well if I _asked_ you to it would be fine.”

Castiel nods emphatically, staring down at his hands. “Of course. I really am sorry, Dean.”

Dean takes one of Castiel’s hands in his, waiting until Castiel looks up into his eyes before he speaks. “It’s okay, Cas. You didn’t know it would bother me. People make mistakes.”

“I’m not people, though.”

“Well, quasi-angels make mistakes too, don’t they?”

Castiel smiles slightly. “We do.”

“Alright… so. Back to business. Where the fuck did all this come from?”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’re bound to accumulate a few things.” Now that their emotional moment is over, Castiel moves back over Dean, trailing gentle kisses down his torso.

“Did you make the tapestries?”

“I have a great deal of free time.”

“They’re _incredible,_ Cas.”

Castiel lets out a pleased hum, and Dean feels a small surge of warmth course through him like he does sometimes when Castiel is happy. It feels good, like lying in a sunbeam, or putting on a soft robe.

“I had quite a fondness for the Hanging Gardens.”

“So… they were real? And they looked like those tapestries?”

Castiel glances at the wall, smiling fondly. “I might have embellished some. The walls were always streaked with dirty water, and there seemed to be stray leaves and soil underfoot at all times.”

“That’s… fuck, that’s amazing.”

“It was beautiful, even with its imperfections.”

“Like me?”

Dean’s heart jumps when Castiel looks into his eyes. “You are far more beautiful than even the Gardens. Your scent sweeter,” Castiel says, nosing at Dean’s neck. “Your imperfections more stunning.”

“I think I’d probably look better with fewer of them,” Dean says, shuddering when he feels Castiel’s tongue on his neck.

“Your scars mark you as a warrior,” Castiel says reverently, lips parted over the jagged scar running down the center of Dean’s chest.

“True, but when I see them I just think of the bad times that brought them, you know? That one on my chest? Vampire. He wasn’t even hungry. He dragged that knife down slowly, just to hear me scream.”

“I could…” Castiel bites his lip uncertainly.

“What?”

“I could get rid of them, if you wanted.”

“The scars? You could?”

“With your permission.”

Dean looks at the myriad of scars covering his body. He doesn’t think he’d miss any of them. “Permission granted.”

Castiel smiles down at the scar, then kisses it. Dean feels… a thing. Some sharp, bright ripple of something not quite painful, there and gone like quickly cooling candle wax dripped onto skin.

“Better?” Castiel says, looking into Dean’s eyes, then at Dean’s chest. The scar is gone, nothing more than a memory.

Dean grins at Castiel. “Yeah, that’s better.”

“What about this one?” Castiel says, kissing his way toward the gnarled knot of healed over flesh on top of Dean’s right shoulder.

“Another vampire, different hunt. Sammy came with me on that one. If he hadn’t I’d have died.”

Castiel licks at the scar, once, twice, and then Dean feels that white-hot sensation again, and the scar vanishes like it was never there, the skin a little pink, but healed.

“That’s a neat trick, Cas.”

“Shall we do another?”

 

*

 

Over the next hour, Castiel kisses, licks, and even nibbles away every scar on Dean’s body. The faint scar on his forehead from a car crash ten years ago, the bite on the back of his calf from what Dean _thinks_ was a chupacabra, bullet knicks, knife cuts, glass cuts, scars Dean doesn’t even remember getting. Dean tells the stories of the wounds he recalls, and Castiel heals them all until he’s kissing around Dean’s dick and asking if Dean wants his foreskin healed.

“Uh… I’m not sure about that one, Cas…” Dean says, staring down at where Castiel’s lips are wrapping around the tip of him. He’s hard, has been for a while. Castiel makes a noncommittal noise of assent before taking Dean all the way into his mouth, to the back of his throat, then _further_. “Fuck, Jesus, fuck, fuck, _Cas._ ”

Castiel pulls off, and Dean’s panting, whining. “I’m feeling a bit peckish,” Castiel says, smiling slowly. “Confess.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean mutters, mind racing as Castiel teases his cockhead with his god damn plush lips. His brain is too fucking foggy, he says the first thing that comes to mind as Castiel takes him all the way in again. “I feel like shit for making you feel sad earlier.”

Castiel mutters something around Dean’s dick, but Dean can’t understand it. The vibrations make him twitch and shudder though, and he fights the urge to thrust up. Castiel can take it, but… manners.

“I knew you didn’t mean anything bad with keeping me asleep, but I bitched about it anyway, and that look on your face, that rejected look on your face, Cas…” God, it’s fucked up, getting sucked off by Castiel while talking about how sad he looked a few minutes ago. “I… you mean a lot to me, Cas, I don’t like making you feel sad.”

Castiel pulls off of Dean’s cock, and when he looks up his eyes are glowing, but Dean can still see the emotion there. Castiel crawls over Dean and kisses him while he draws their dicks together. “It’s fine, Dean, I can be… concerned with rejection at times. Blame it on growing up different from everyone around me.”

Castiel’s hand is moving over their cocks, fast, wet, and tight, and Dean can’t believe he’s about to come while having a talk about his fucking feelings. “I’m still sorry, Cas,” Dean whines, “I’m _sorry._ ”

That seems to be enough for Castiel, who gasps and comes on his hand and on Dean’s cock. Dean hears a sound like plastic cracking, but none of the lights go out; maybe Castiel’s getting better at curbing his destructive orgasms.

His hand is still moving, still working Dean closer. “Now you,” Castiel says softly, and for whatever fucking reason that’s all it takes to drag Dean over the edge. He kisses Castiel hard as he rides his orgasm, until his body starts to relax and Castiel pulls away, rolling onto his back.

“Still _peckish_?” Dean says, smirking up at the ceiling.

 

*

 

“What made you decide to decorate?”

“I’m not sure, just felt the urge to nest, I suppose.”

They’re crouched in Sam’s backyard, tending to the many, many blackberry bushes growing around the perimeter. Castiel, who’d decided to take a break from tulips, has been putting his excess energy into feeding these bushes. There weren’t any bushes when they moved in, but there sure as shit are some now. They’re all along the inner walls of the backyard fence, growing bigger every day, and finally they’re ready to harvest.

Sam’s neighbors are pissed. They think he’s using more than his share of water, and his claims of using a special imported fertilizer aren’t really winning all of them over. On the plus side, they can’t kick Sam and his family out for something they have no proof of. Dean just feels bad that his neighbors are giving Sam the stink eye. Castiel suggested letting the energy spread through the neighborhood, but Dean and Sam agreed that would attract even more attention. They’ll figure it out. Or Dean and Cas will move somewhere more secluded. It’ll be okay either way. Dean’s okay living with the family, but he kind of loves the idea of moving into a secluded house up north, some small cabin surrounded by trees and grace-grown tulips and full of Castiel’s knicknacks. Shit, that sounds nice.

It’s been a few minutes since Castiel answered, and Dean realizes he got distracted by his visions of a quiet home in the woods and forgot to reply.

“Is it feeling more like home for you now?”

“You’re my home Dean,” Castiel automatically replies.

“Okay, okay, settle down,” Dean grumbles, blushing. “Does it feel… _nestier_ to you?”

Castiel looks over at Dean, confused. “Nest...ier?” he mutters. “Oh. _Oh,_ yes, it is very… nest like. Although there is not enough _you_ mixed in. I covered the room in my things, it needs more of your things.”

“I don’t really have… tapestries and knickknacks, Cas.”

“Why is that?”

Dean frowns at his almost-full mixing bowl of blackberries. “I don’t really know. I was never the type, I guess. Everything that’s important to me is usually travelling with me in my car. Like you,” he says, giving Castiel a cheesy grin before popping a blackberry in his mouth. God, these taste good. Tart and sweet with just the right amount of give. Dean’s glad Castiel went with fruit and not kale or something. “Am I like… eating a piece of you right now?”

“Wh… excuse me?” Castiel sets his full bowl of blackberries down and grabs an empty one. They brought a lot of containers, there’s a lot of berries out here.

“The berries were made with your grace, right?”

“Yes?”

“Well, your grace is a part of you… so it’s kind of like I’m eating a piece of you, isn’t it?”

Castiel looks mildly appalled. “I assure you, it’s _nothing_ like that.”

“Dude, I’ve eaten your come, I think you can look a little less disgusted.”

Castiel’s eyes close, a smile spreading. “Mmm, indeed you have.”

Dean looks around the backyard. There are still so many bushes. Harvesting them all today would be silly. “God, what are we going to do with all these?”

“I told the girls I would make mini pies for their school’s bake sale,” Castiel says peacefully. There’s a dead bee on the ground next to Castiel’s knee, and when he nudges it with his finger it gets up and flies away. _Fuck._

“Jesus, how many pies are you planning to make?”

Castiel grins. “A lot.”

 

*

 

The house smells _incredible._ The scent of blackberries has permeated the entire place, and it’s heavenly. Every time Castiel cooks Dean feels so damn _peaceful,_ a little like he’s a child again, safe and warm and waiting for his mother to tell him dinner’s ready. It doesn’t hurt that Castiel’s an amazing cook. He’s had a long time to master his various crafts (though Dean still doesn’t know _how_ long, Castiel is weird about his age), and he excels at many things.

Jess bought him an apron, and Castiel wears it every time he cooks now, even if it’s nothing messy. There’s a cartoon angel on it holding a plate of burgers. It’s fucking adorable.

Castiel is good with the family. He takes Bones for walks, helps the girls with their homework, and Dean once walked in on him giving Sam a _massage._ Meanwhile, Dean is doing odd jobs around the house and neighborhood to make it harder for the neighbors to hate Sam, and he’s having a _lot_ of sex.

He’s also a little restless. He can only be at the house, enjoying the apple (or blackberry) pie life for so long before that antsy feeling starts to creep in. It sucks, but that’s how it goes. This isn’t his longest break from being on the road, but it’s his longest in a while. It’s not quite that he feels the need to get out and kill monsters, but… the road. He needs to be in his car, headed somewhere in the contiguous United States. The pull he feels to leave is just as strong as the pull he’ll eventually feel to return.

So, when Dean sees Ash’s dumb, grinning mug pop up on his cellphone for an incoming call, he answers right away.

“Hey, Ash! How’s it hangin’?”

“Short, shriveled, and a little to the left,” Ash says easily. Gross. “A little birdie told me—”

“So, Sam.”

“A _little birdie_ told me that you were back in Valencia.”

“Got somewhere nearby for me to go?”

“Leavenworth, Washington.”

“What’s there?”

“Well, Oktoberfest if you wait a couple more weeks, but right now? Dead hikers. Six in one week.”

“Ouch. Any other info?”

“Not much, not a very digital town. Just six deaths, not on the same day, tagged for being particularly gruesome animal attacks. No mention of whether they’re missing hearts or drained of blood, anything like that. Be prepared to investigate, and be prepared to kill something scary.”

“Okay, awesome. Talk to you soon, Ash.”

“I recommend sticking around until Oktoberfest, man. I hear they go all out.”

 

*

 

Castiel comes into the basement while Dean is packing, and Dean feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Castiel still has the apron on, the white background pairing well with today’s lavender cassock.

“You are… leaving,” Castiel says, eyes darting between Dean and his half-packed duffel sitting on the bed.

“Yeah, uh… not for long, just a hunt up north. Dead hikers in Washington, probably a werewolf.”

“It’s not a full moon.”

“Or a vampire. Point is, I’m gonna go check it out, probably be gone a few days.”

“Were you going to leave without telling me?” Castiel’s jaw is a hard line, but his eyes are full of hurt.

“ _No._ Cas, no. I wouldn’t just… I don’t sneak off, okay? I was just getting packed first.”

“Your family isn’t home yet, don’t you want to say goodbye first?”

“You’re here, right? You can say goodbye to them for me, I won’t be gone that long, Cas. Leavenworth is like a day away, probably a day or two of investigating, then a day back. Not even a week. And you like it here, you’ll be okay without me, probably won’t even notice I’m gone,” Dean says emphatically, stuffing a few extra pairs of socks in his bag. His “investigating” suit is still in the trunk in a garment bag, hopefully it’s not too creased.

“I could be of help,” Castiel says uncertainly.

“I know, Cas, I know that. But this is small, I’ll be fine on my own.” Dean’s being weird, he knows he is. He doesn’t even know why, really, but something about being “caught” is making him panic, making him anxious to get away.

“You’re going _now_?”

“Yeah, gotta get going as soon as possible, you know? Just let Sam and the girls know I’m off on a _job_ in Leavenworth, alright?”

“Dean…”

Dean’s finished packing, and he grabs his bag, rushing forward to give Castiel a quick kiss. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says, voice pained.

Dean stops in his ascent up the stairs. “This is okay, right? You’ll be okay here without me?”

Castiel’s posture sags a little. Dean tries not to focus on the hurt now written clearly all over his face. “Of course, Dean. I’ll be here when you get back, I’ll be fine.”

Dean nods. “Alright, I’ll see you soon, Cas.”

 

*

 

If Dean’s being honest, maybe he _would_ have snuck off, left some dumb note. Leaving always gets him the puppy eyes from Sam, the concerned eyes from Jess, and the confused eyes from his nieces. Leaving always turns into a _production,_ with Dean feeling guilty as all hell by the time he gets in the Impala. So, sometimes he leaves when nobody’s home, or when everyone’s asleep. He leaves a note, he always leaves a note.

He’s over an hour away from Valencia, car on the highway where she’s meant to be, when the crushing guilt really settles in, makes a home in his chest. Castiel had been so hurt, so confused, and Dean had left anyway, because suddenly he just had to get away from everything. He gets like that. Why does he get like that? He was _happy,_ maybe a little restless, but happy. And yet, the second he had an out, he took it.

Dean’s such a fuckup. Running away from his boyfriend— his _mate_ like that. That shouldn’t have happened. If he’d just explained he was feeling antsy and restless, that he needed to get away and be on his own for a few days, Castiel would have probably understood. Instead Dean got thrown by being caught, and suddenly he couldn’t get out fast enough, and Castiel is probably back there baking pies and feeling rejected.

 

*

 

Dean’s two more hours into the drive when he starts to wonder why he even left Castiel behind. Why he put Castiel in that box in his mind labeled “things that stay in Valencia”, when Castiel is… portable. Dean would have been fine with Castiel here. As long as he was on the road, getting a break from passive aggressive neighbors and children playing and lawn mowers and all that other suburban shit. There’s a part of him, a big, _big_ part, that wants to turn around and go back, get Castiel, so they can do this hunt _together._ But he’s already three hours away. He’d have to drive three hours back, probably end up sleeping the night in Valencia, and not get to Leavenworth until tomorrow night. No. Dean’s going to keep going.

So what if he’s feeling lonely, and childish, and foolish?

 

*

 

By the time he’s ten hours away from Valencia, he decides to stop for the rest of the night and get a little sleep.

He dreams of Azazel in the basement of his childhood home.

 

*

 

Dean’s not so far up his own ass that he can’t appreciate the Bavarian village charm of Leavenworth’s main street, but for the most part he’s too bummed to really look around. He focuses on his investigation, flashing his fake FBI badge to talk to the locals, bullshitting his way into the morgue, the usual shit he’d never get away with investigating in a larger city. The victims are… shredded. Something scary and powerful got to these poor bastards, and what’s left behind is not pretty to look at. They were all hiking along the same six mile stretch of trail, one on Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, two on Monday. Today’s Tuesday. The trail is closed with stern warnings to hikers and nature walkers, so Dean isn’t sure if the beast will have moved on. He’s also not sure if it’s a wolf, a bear, or something a little more supernatural. If it’s a rabid wolf or a hungry bear, Dean still may as well kill it, he supposes. And if it’s something else… well, he’ll kill that too. It’s clearly something with a high kill drive and a low intelligence. Smarter beasts wouldn’t leave their kills right where anyone could find them. A hungry beast would surely be full by now. This is something that is killing just to kill.

Unfortunately, Dean will have no way of knowing what it is, _or_ if there’s more than one, until he can go and check out the trail himself. He’s got a shotgun full of rock salt and silver bullets in his revolver, plus his demon killing knife strapped to his ankle. He’s awake, he’s alert, he’s ready to go.

But he’s not going.

He stands at the the entrance to the trail for ten minutes, willing himself to walk forward, but he’s not moving forward. He’s staring at the trees. There’s a dense concentration of pine and Douglas fir surrounding the trailhead, and they seem so ominous. They cast heavy shadows over the parts of the trail Dean can see from here, and it’s quiet out, and... Dean’s _afraid_.

A thousand miles south of here there’s a house full of people that care about him, and what’s Dean doing? Going after a mystery beast _alone_ like his fucking reckless mess of a father. Running toward his possible death after a hasty exit. He could _die_ out here, and he won’t have said goodbye to Sam. The last memory of Castiel he’d have would be of the hurt in his eyes when Dean all but fled the basement.

How did he get here? He shouldn’t be doing this. Not alone, not when he doesn’t have to.

Dean’s thinking about calling Sam, or maybe even Castiel for advice when he hears it; a bone chilling, snarling _roar_ like he’s never heard in his life, deep and visceral and pretty fucking alarming. Someone could be in trouble right now.

Alright, so running into danger it is.

He takes off up the trail, running in the direction of the growling, feet pounding against the soft earth. He’s dropped his shotgun, but he doesn’t turn back; he’s still armed. He hears a pained groan, and then a very human shout, an angry battle cry even, and the animal’s noises cut off abruptly. Dean follows the trail up a hill and stops dead when he reaches the top.

There’s a clearing at the top of the hill and Castiel is near the center, wings fanned out aggressively behind him, one hand gripping the head, and only the head, of the _massive fucking wolf_ next to him. Hell, not even a wolf, some combination of a wolf and a hyena. Some _huge_ combination of a wolf and a hyena. Castiel’s lavender cassock is covered in blood and gristle, there are claw marks down one side of his face, and there’s a huge, bleeding bite on the left side of his neck. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Dean. He looks irritated as he stares down at the huge head in his hand, the head that Dean’s thinking Castiel physically tore off the rest of the beast, since there’s not a weapon in sight. Jesus.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, stomach roiling unpleasantly at the sight of the wounds. Castiel drops the head, turning to face Dean fully.

“Dean,” Castiel says. Dean can’t interpret the tone in his voice, nor the look on his face.

“How did you get here?” Dean says. Castiel says nothing, but his wings twitch in response. “I… I thought you told me you couldn’t fly.”

“I can’t teleport, I can’t fly with passengers. My two wings can still carry me, they are very strong.”

“You… flew here.” Dean wonders how many people saw a giant lavender bird in the sky during Castiel’s journey to Leavenworth.

“After I finished my pies, yes. I found myself growing too agitated. All the plants in the house were dying.” Castiel sighs. “I left Sam a note.”

Dean approaches Castiel slowly. “You were afraid for me.”

“Well, apparently I was right to be. Shunka Warakin are very hard to kill, and here you are about to face one alone.”

Dean doesn’t even know what the fuck a Shunka Warakin is, other than something big, ugly, and dead. “You’re hurt.”

Castiel nods, and his wings dissolve into whatever place they go when Dean can’t see them. “Like I said, they are very hard to kill.”

Dean takes Castiel’s hand, ignoring the blood and ichor covering it. “I get this urge to run away from home all the time,” he says. “Away from that normal life, away from routines and complacency. I get antsy, and then I leave until I can’t stand to be away anymore. I shouldn’t have gone without you. I shouldn’t have left you the way that I did.”

Castiel’s eyes are glowing as Dean’s sins wash over him, and Dean watches as Castiel’s wounds slowly heal themselves.

“I shouldn’t have left you at all,” Dean adds.

Castiel sighs, head tipping back, tension draining out of his body. “Let’s go, Dean.”

Dean nods, squeezing Castiel’s hand. “Home?”

“Not if you don’t want to be there. How about you take me somewhere I can take a shower?”

“I can do that.”

 

 

*

 

 

The sex that follows is… intense, to say the least.

They’re in some motel in Leavenworth that Dean’s already forgotten the name of, still covered in sweat, blood, and dirt from their day. Castiel’s seated at the head of the bed, propped up against the wall with Dean in his lap, thrusting up hard and desperate. Dean’s face is buried in Castiel’s shoulder, and even with his eyes closed he can see the glow from Castiel’s tattoos. The glow is constant, incessant, because Dean can’t stop muttering apologies into Castiel’s skin, over and over, trying to soothe the ache of guilt still coursing through him.

“Dean,” Castiel whines, breathing hard, “you have to stop, it’s too much.”

“I’m sorry, Cas, I won’t leave you like that again, I won’t,” Dean mutters. He can’t stop seeing that despondent, rejected look on Castiel’s face back in Valencia, can’t focus on the present.

“It’s okay if you do,” Castiel says, voice gentle despite the harsh movement of their bodies. Dean pulls back, looking Castiel in his beautiful, glowing eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, Dean? I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean croaks, tensing and coming so hard it almost hurts. He mutters one last apology and Castiel lets go, coming and releasing so much energy Dean can see the air around them distort and waver. Castiel’s gasping and clutching Dean so tight it hurts, and Dean hopes he never lets go.

 

 

*

 

 

“Does this mean you’ll be wearing one of my robes when we return home?”

Castiel’s fidgeting with the hem of Dean’s moss green henley, smoothing the fabric over his abdomen. He’s wearing the shirt, a pair of Dean’s jeans, even a pair of Dean’s boxers, though he’s still barefoot. Dean likes the sight of Castiel in his clothes, it makes something warm and possessive settle low in his gut. Castiel told Dean he wanted to wear some of Dean’s things because the clothes he arrived in were ruined, but Dean’s seen Castiel clean his own clothes with a _thought,_ he finds it hard to believe that the blood, dirt, and rips on Castiel’s cassock are much of an obstacle. He figures this is a comfort thing, but he doesn’t know if Castiel is wearing the clothes to comfort himself, or to comfort Dean.

Dean feels… a bit raw. Maybe he’s not drowning in guilt like he was yesterday, but he feels shaky and vulnerable. “I’ll wear whatever you want, Cas,” he says truthfully.

They’re standing out in the parking lot for the motel, glancing around at their surroundings. The intent had been to leave, but it’s hard to want to walk away from this sight. It’s Washington, so the greenery is no surprise, but the white tulips are. They’re everywhere, peeking out of the bushes and planter boxes surrounding the motel, growing out of cracks in the pavement, reaching even to the field across the street. There’s a ton of people taking photos, talking animatedly, kicking through the blanket of white petals covering parts of the ground.

“You had a lot of energy to burn,” Dean mutters.

“You had a lot of guilt.”

“Yeah, I do that. A lot.”

“It’s alright, Dean. We’re all works in progress. Even me, and I’m nearly three thousand years old,” Castiel says casually. Three _thousand_ years old, holy shit.

Dean nods, taking Castiel’s hand in his. “What do white tulips mean, Cas?”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, gazing at him with a look of pure affection that Dean probably doesn’t deserve, but one that he hopes to deserve some day. “Forgiveness.”

 

*end*

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was not at all what I was planning for this timestamp, but sometimes these things have a mind of their own.
> 
> Also, I was listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mknLaFJZ4v4) while I was working on the last scene and it made me SO EMOTIONAL.


End file.
